The Vasari clan's estate wasn't far from the family home, yet it belonged to a different world. There were no children's laughter echoing through its halls, no family photos on the walls. The marble floors coldly echoed the clack of footsteps, and behind every wall, armed guards stood unseen. This was the base—the heart that pumped life into the Vasari family's criminal empire.
Drake had been here as a child, a few times. But this was the first time he returned not as a guest.
In the main hall, loyal members were already lined up. Familiar faces, long-unseen gazes. But they did not greet him. They did not smile. Instead, a breathless anticipation clung to them.
With a mere gesture from his grandfather, Giorgio Vasari, the heavy oak doors opened, and Drake stepped into the council chamber.
Behind the long table sat Marcello, his uncle—the closest blood relative he truly felt as family since his father's death. Beside him sat aging men, young lieutenants with wild eyes. All lived for the family. And now, for him too.
Marcello gave him a nearly invisible nod, as if to say: it's time.
"Gentlemen," Giorgio began, his voice filling the room even though he remained seated. "Today, a new era begins. The heir has arrived. From now on, he decides with us."
Drake said nothing. He stood still, feeling the weight of past, present, and future press down on his shoulders.
Marcello cleared his throat quietly, then turned to Drake.
"The family stands before troubled times. Not because of the police, not the politicians… but because of old wounds. The Moretti clan."
"They... still?" Drake asked, his voice calm, though his gut tensed.
"Fifteen years ago, they betrayed blood. And now they beg for peace," Giorgio said with disdain in his voice. "Their strength is gone. They're broken. They have no other choice."
Marcello slid a dossier across the table. Drake opened it.
A photo. Blonde hair, pale blue eyes, porcelain skin. Cold, beautiful, distant. Livia Moretti.
"She's their granddaughter," Marcello said. "Smart. Proud. Like you."
"What do you want from me?" Drake asked.
Giorgio's eyes gleamed.
"We want you to marry her. That's the price of peace. The condition they offered. Because they need us. Because without you—without us—they'll vanish into dust."
Drake looked at the photo. For a moment, he was not a Vasari, not an heir. Just a boy whose life was once again shaped by a decision.
"This... is war without war," he said quietly.
Marcello smiled faintly.
"Every marriage is, kid."
Drake's fingers rested on the photo. Livia's gaze pierced even from paper. But he wasn't looking at the girl. He was assessing the situation.
Why? he thought.
Why don't we crush them? Why don't we stomp them out when they're on their knees, begging? The Vasari flame was burning higher than ever.
He didn't say it out loud. But the question hung in the air, and Giorgio, as if reading his grandson's mind, continued:
"They're not our equal in strength. But they hold the most sway over the state's power. Mayors, police chiefs, parliamentary rats…" he waved dismissively. "...all raised in their grip."
Silence fell.
"We could achieve that too," Drake said softly, almost defensively.
"And we will," Giorgio replied calmly. "But not tomorrow. And not through blood. Not now. If we crush them now, even those who watched neutrally will turn against us. The peace this marriage buys gives us time and freedom to move. And this family will not just survive. It will lead."
A moment of silence lingered in the room. Drake looked at the photo again.
The thought that this girl would not be a loving partner but a part of a deal... deeply unsettled him.
This isn't marriage. It's territory exchange. Two bodies, for a war, he thought.
Marcello watched him with wise, old eyes. Then he spoke, softly, just for Drake:
"Your grandfather isn't finding a wife for his grandson, Drake. He's building a throne for his heir."
Drake looked at the photo once more. Then closed the dossier.
"When do I meet her?"
He only nodded to Giorgio's words. Inside, he still boiled—but he didn't show it. The Vasari name allowed no emotional weakness—only results.
Giorgio gestured to one of his men, who handed an envelope to Marcello. With a swift motion, Marcello opened it, scanned the documents inside, then turned to Drake.
"The engagement party will be in three days," he said quietly but firmly. "The Morettis have already accepted the invitation. Everything's in place."
Drake didn't answer immediately. Three days. That's how long he had to accept his fate—or at least learn how to breathe within it.
Marcello smiled slightly.
"Come with me," he said. "If you're going to get married, you might as well look sharp doing it."
An hour later, they parked in a narrow alley-like street. A white, embossed sign hung over the door in elegant, old-fashioned lettering:
Luigi Balestra – Sartoria su misura
(Luigi Balestra – Bespoke Tailoring)
Inside, the shop felt like a different era. Dark wooden furniture, gilded mirrors, leather-bound albums, and garments that said more about the wearer than any business card.
Marcello was already reaching for the door when his phone rang. He stopped for a moment, then his expression darkened.
"I have to go. It's important. Go in alone, Luigi is expecting you. Tell him your name—he'll know."
Drake nodded and stepped inside.
Inside, an elderly, hunched man was leaning over a mannequin. This was Luigi Balestra, the city's legendary tailor, who had once made suits for Giorgio in his youth. His hands were wrinkled, but his movements still guided the fabric with precision, as if age had never touched him.
But he wasn't alone.
A young girl stood beside him, wearing a light brown apron. She held a measuring tape between her fingers but handled it a bit clumsily, as if still learning the craft's nuances. Luigi patiently explained something, gesturing with that passionate Italian flair only true artisans possess—with heart, hands, and fire.
Drake, however, wasn't listening to their words.
He was looking at her... and he had never seen anyone more beautiful.
Black hair cascaded over her shoulders in silky waves. Her movements were simple, yet graceful. Her dark brown eyes sat deep but sparkled brightly—like twin night fires, warm and dangerous. And when that shy yet sincere smile appeared on her face, revealing perfect white teeth, the world simply ceased to exist.
Luigi noticed the guest and straightened up slightly, bowing respectfully.
"Signor Vasari. It is an honor to finally meet you in person. Your grandfather always wanted only the best—and a man wants the best for his grandson too, doesn't he?"
Drake nodded slightly, still half-looking at the girl.
She stepped aside and offered a deep, respectful nod.
"Mr. Drake. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Her voice was soft, silky, but not coquettish. A strange calm radiated from her—she wasn't cheeky, nor was she provocative, but her gaze... it shimmered. Like someone who knew something others didn't.
And those eyes… they shone. Not from fear, not from admiration—but from some inner fire.
The girl smiled, barely noticeably.
Then she added, "Today, you'll be the most important part of my lesson."